Let’s start this post with a heads-up. My posts can be on anything at anytime. Happy, dark, funny or just plain insane.
Why? Because isn’t that how life rolls?
I’m Bobbi Romans. I used to write romance. Hell, I used to write period. Loved it. It was my anchor and my sanity savor. Then life went hard left while I was still strolling on the right.
Life changed. But it always does.
Now, I’m back at an office job with little free-time for writing (which I’m going to try and change) and helping a family member through a gnarly divorce and custody battle all while STILL trying to keep me-me.
I turned 50, fell twice, screwed my knee up and if a certain person I love doesn’t stop suggesting maybe losing a few pounds might help the healing knee—well there may be some ex-lax brownies in their future!
Yes, my poor knobby knee is protesting the fat ass it’s trying to keep upright. No, that’s a lie. I have no ass. Really. I don’t get it. Other women get chubby and get big boobs and a butt.
Nope. Belly. All belly.
Now going back to the falls, in fairness, the tub should have more of those non-skid things and the second fall was because some buffoon filled the dog water so full it puddled out. New gorgeous tile + water= Me sailing beyond the kitchen to rather ping-pong like off every door jam and wall between the kitchen and laundry room.
Ended up on my back with my daughter and granddaughter staring over me, freaked out and asking if I was ok.
See, that’s how you know you’re old. Younger = laughter after a fall. Older=horrified looks and phones being pulled out to call 911.
For all this however, I’m digging 50. I don’t care about the wrong things as much as I understand the right ones.
No make-up for work? No biggie. Ran out of time to dress up for the party? Cool, the house is clean and food is cooked even if I do appear as if I’ve stuck my finger in a socket and am wearing half the flour bag. I’ve finally, truly understood, those who matter don’t care what you did or did not wear. How your hair was fixed or how on point your make-up is/was.
They care you are there.
See, I think many of us have friends and family that have been this way, WE however didn’t understand it.
I tried to be the Do-It-All Mom. I didn’t buy the cookies, I made them. I didn’t buy the costumes… I made those too. Volunteer? Yep, not a day of but the weeks of. All while working full time.
Then I learned, it wasn’t the homemade vs store bought that mattered.
It’s that you are THERE.
Something about turning 50 changed things for me. I want more time to enjoy the actual events in life rather than wasting so much time looking the best that I can, while trying to be June Cleaver so much that I essentially missed life’s special moment(s). So I’m sharing my recent discovery hoping maybe someone else’s life is a nutty as mine and they are wondering if its okay to say… enough.
Don’t get me wrong. I still try to keep myself up. Just not to the degree I did before. If I run out of time for make-up-don’t care. Touch of bronzer and its out the door. If I run out of time to make that cake? Life is too short, I swing by a bakery and buy one.
I’m not Superwoman and I’m tired of trying to be.
I am me and I’m okay with that.